A Study in Quidditch
by Amave
Summary: Sherlock's and John's first meeting happens on a Quidditch field... Deductions ensured. Written for the Johnlock Gift Exchange. A Study in Pink potterfied!


**This is my gift to theheartofsherlockholmes, made for the Johnlock gift exchange on tumblr. The prompt was****: **_**I'd like to see some crossover or AUs! Potterlock, maybe? Author has free reign. Any rating. **_**So Potterlock it is! Hope you enjoy!**

**~Amave**

It was a bright cold day in April and Sherlock Holmes wondered why on earth he had chosen to be outside. He was sitting on the hard and cold wooden benches of the Quidditch pitch. A cold and breezy wind blew Sherlock's dark curls all in the wrong direction. He fastened his blue scarf around his neck a little tighter, in order to avoid a potential cold. It was all in vain.

_Why am I sitting here?_ Sherlock asked himself again with a grumpy face. He was remembered of the answer when the Quidditch team appeared on the field in front of him.

It was Gryffindor's team he was going to watch for the first time. He liked watching people in general.

The tall and broad coach roared everybody awake with orders and directions. Apparently, the coach had made a new adjustment in the positions, matching with a new strategy, which they were testing.

With great interest, Sherlock watched how the in red and gold shrouded players flew over the field. In his head he formulated the exact plan the coach made and dared to make some adjustments. The original plan was good, though not brilliant.

The Chasers should practice their aim and not sway in and out of their mapped lines. The Seeker was a bad player; the coach should replace him with one of the Chasers, the one with the short brown curls. Sherlock would also change the positions of the Beaters, who were crossing each other constantly now. One should just stay left and the other right. If they would do so, this strategy would be flawless.

Too late, Sherlock noticed that the team had stopped whizzing about and were now hanging in the air, staring at him. They floated towards him, the coach leading. A Beater murmured "Good to be training again." To the coach, who was half listening and instead focused on Sherlock.

"Hey! I'm going to have to ask you to leave. This is a private practice." The coach yelled to Sherlock. He stepped off his broom in front of Sherlock, who had got up to face him equally.

"What are you doing here? Did Ravenclaw hire their favourite spy again?" An other team member asked sneering. The others laughed at him apart from the coach and the other Beater.

"Hush!" The coach shushed them. Sherlock gave them an indifferent glance. He really didn't care about those idiots.

"Really, though. Are you a spy?" The coach asked with a serious and stern face.

Sherlock faked a doubtful look. He decided to tease them just a little bit.

"No." The coach seemed relieved. "But I would say the same If I actually was." Sherlock admitted with a grin. _Of course_ spies would do that. Was the coach that stupid to not think of it himself? Before he could reply, Sherlock began talking.

"I only analyse for my own pleasure. For example, I see that that Chaser would be a much better Beater than you and that you in return would make a much better Keeper, according to your insight and overall skill to coordinate a chaos, which shows in your new strategy. Very ingenious, I might say, though not perfect, of course."

Sherlock saw the team's expressions switch from interest to wonder and then offence. The coach couldn't help asking irritated, yet interested:

"How do I make it perfect then? As it seems you know it all." He muttered the last part.

"It doesn't_ seem_. I _know_ it better than you lot." He saw most of the team rolling their eyes, but one, the other Beater. He just stared.

"Alright. Switch yourself into the Keeper's position and let that red-haired Chaser of yours take your position. She has a perfect aim and a fiery attitude, perfect for a Beater."

"Hmmm, thank you." She praised flirtatious.

"But she is not careful and may cause future fouls and free throws for the opposite team..."

"Anyway don't tell your Beaters to cross each other's paths. They have no reason to do that, so let them stay at either side of the field. Let your Chasers cross each other's paths for the most beneficial ball-use and make them follow their paths. If they don't, everything will be a mess and you won't score. Oh, and let them practice their teamwork and aim. They're horrible. You should get rid of your Keeper because she's never going to catch the Quaffle if she can only stare at your bottom."

The girl went red and looked expectant in the coach's direction. He was surprised, but made no interested move to the girl. She left the field in a hurry, covering her face. One of the Chasers was done with Sherlock's talk too and went with her.

"You, coach..." Sherlock poked the coach on his chest. He wanted to go on but he was interrupted.

"Lestrade. My name is Gregory Lestrade."

Sherlock sighed annoyed and rolled with his eyes. He hated it when people interrupted him with trivial information.

"As I said: you should be in the Keeper's position and not in the Beater's one. As a keeper you can keep an eye on everyone, make sure they do their work properly. Your other Beater is the only one in the team about who you don't have to worry, because he's a magnificent player. Although he-"

The team was very irritated with him now. Sherlock looked smugly onto their confusion, but frowned when one of the members interrupted him._ Again._

"Who do you think you are to trump us like this, you know-it-all!"

"Can't you listen? I told you idiots minutes ago."

Sherlock sighed irritated and proudly raised his chin in the air.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am a Fourth Year Ravenclaw. And as I told you, I'm not patriotic, because I 'spy' on you for my own entertainment. Though, I _do_ get paid for giving advice-"

"So you are a spy!"

"No, I am not. Has someone charmed your ears with _muffliato_ or are you deaf!?"

The team obviously didn't know about that special spell Sherlock invented all by himself. Sherlock could almost feel his IQ lowering with the second. The team also was growing tired of him. They were shuffling on their spot, looking at the air... all symptoms of boredom. Only Lestrade, the tall red-head and the other Beater which he had complimented were still listening to him.

"Well, go back to your own House where you belong!"

"Yeah and piss off, will you?"

This was the only thing the imbeciles had to say to him before they turned their backs to him and left.

The coach- Lestrade watched them with a pitiful expression until they too, disappeared into the changing rooms.

The tall red-haired girl seemed not so bored with this conversation, but she chose a new target to flirt upon. She untied the elastic band that held her hair in a ponytail and shook her hair loose before addressing Lestrade with a smirk.

"So, coach, Are ye going to make me a Beater or not?"

She was Scottish and obviously not afraid to show it. Lestrade turned a little bit red and coughed. He closed his eyes and brought his fingers to his temples to massage them. Eventually he let out a tired sigh.

"Look, Amy. I really need to think about this. "He turned to Sherlock.

"What exactly did you say about… erh… everything?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to sigh tiredly. He felt his IQ lowering with the minute he was here. Was it really this difficult for those morons to 1: not notice the improvements he said; 2: remember them?

"I'll send an owl with the details."

Lestrade nodded, murmured a thank you and left the field with the read-head called Amy.

Only the other Beater and he were on the pitch. Sherlock let his eyes glide over him. He did his usual scan and _oh, he is interesting._

"Beauxbatons or Durmstrang?"

The Beater looked stunned. "Sorry?"

Normal reaction. Be careful now. Don't piss him off too. He's the most interesting of the lot.

"Which was it? Beauxbatons or Durmstrang?"

"Durmstrang. Sorry. How did you-"

Sherlock smiled almost apathetically._ Here we go._

"I know you're a Beater called J. Watson. The back of your shirt tells me that. You should be fit and strong, but you look tired. You have bags under your eyes. A lot of physical effort has been required, but not this training. Your haircut and the way you hold yourself are a vague outline of an attitude of discipline that you had adopted not long ago. Your right leg is bad, you think, because it's psychosomatic. You think you can't steer with it, but now you stand before me, you forget about it."

When he said that, Watson shifted and leaned on his broom for support. Sherlock went on like a train,

"Quite correctly, I'm afraid. The conversation with your coach when you approached me: 'Good to be training again.' says been abroad for a long time, definitely longer than a semester, but not longer than a year. I suppose that you are in your sixth year at Hogwarts, regarding bodily proportions. You look adolescent enough to be higher than Fifth Year, though not adult enough to be Seventh. Now, where does a Sixth Year get a leg injury, has to have a disciplined attitude and why does he have to go abroad for a year? Triwizard Tournament."

Sherlock took a welcome breath. He had been rumbling this in his usual deduction voice, a low, almost monotone monologue. He swiftly looked at the Beater called J. Watson. People usually would call him names after he deduced the hell out of tem. The Beater just stared at him with his mouth open, unable to move. Sherlock thought it took him torturously long to assemble himself. Eventually, he shuffled, obviously trying to find out what to respond. He pouted first, before directly looking Sherlock in the eye.

"And if you think: he read it all in the papers or heard the rumours: No. I don't listen to the silly rumours idiots spread out and I deleted the information in my Mind Palace." He added before John could make the comment.

"You look surprised." Sherlock couldn't help to point out the obvious with a smug smile.

"Yes, how do you know, if you haven't followed the papers and rumours?"

_Usual question._

"I don't know, I saw. Just like I just described to you." Sherlock wasn't irritated now, he was impatient to what the Beater would respond. Up till now the data Sherlock deduced was positive, nor negative. It was bad enough that he caught himself on biting his lower lip of nervousness.

"That... was amazing."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot in the air. He blinked a few times, opening his mouth and closing it again. _Well, that was a surprise._

"Do you think so?" Sherlock had to verify.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary." The Beater looked at his feet again, which brought Sherlock back to reality. He had been gaping at Watson, which made him uncomfortable.

"Quite extraordinary." The Beater murmured before looking up.

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

They both couldn't help but smile at each other. Sherlock started to stroll to the changing rooms, still giggling. Watson followed him swiftly, broom in hand. For the first time, someone giggled together with Sherlock. And it felt good. Amazing.

**End of the first chapter! I am thinking of expanding this story... I'm not sure though. Please Review and let me know what you think xx**


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